


Ruse

by shez_writer



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1940s aesthetic, F/M, Hogwarts, Horror, Jaded characters, No warnings so far - will add as i go, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:16:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,658
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9224594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shez_writer/pseuds/shez_writer
Summary: A year after the opening of the Chamber of Secrets, Minerva encounters a trail of breadcrumb clues she deems far too conveniently placed. Little does she know her meddling will bring her face to fang with none other than the brilliant Head Boy, her boyfriend, Tom Riddle.





	1. Chapter 1

**Warnings: language, (eventual) sexual content, and mentions of sensitive topics.**

Story-Book Boy

Years after, she still gets nightmares. She gets them so often that she should be used to them by now, but she isn't.

For a while she tried every potion imaginable, anything to curb the chilling sounds of shots being fired, of sirens wailing and children screaming, the drop of heavy bombs as London was stabbed and ringed with fire. They call it the Blitz now but back then she'd been twelve, practically a wee babe with nary a clue what was going on, hand clasped in her mummy's as they waded through throngs of shouting people to catch the train back to Caithness or anywhere but London. They'd been visiting her mum's side of the family—all the magic-folk—to mourn the death of her father, which was quite ironic because the latter had never known the former even existed.

She isn't supposed to be thinking of the bombings anymore though. Nor her father. He passed away, unexpectedly, in his sleep, the day after Germany invaded Poland and a slew of panic erupted across the continent. She has a few ideas why. Not a gentle husband but he'd provided all right by his children, bless his soul. He'd never known she was a witch either.

She's so tired. Sleep's been stalking her for too long to remember. Rain patters against the window at her dimly lit corner in the library. There's a roll of thunder somewhere afar and she closes her eyes, her quill drooping in her grip. A familiar face emerges in her thoughts: freckles smattered over sunburned cheeks, and a blandly handsome smile; a tall farmer's boy called McDougal. He'd proposed to her over the summer, fumbling over his words, his accent thicker than tree trunks, and Minerva expected she'd have married him out of sheer apathy if her mother hadn't dragged her away.

"Fifty fucking years, here stuck in this pisshole," Mum had said, furiously blowing a wisp of cigarette smoke, the two of them seated at the kitchen table afterwards. "I don't want you to end up like me. No job, no life, no magic, nothing at all. Stuck playing caretaker for an ungrateful wretch. Scraping chicken shit off floors." Minerva must have giggled because Mum had suddenly turned on her, her face burrowed with red, acne-riddled creases. "You listen to me. You get the hell out of here and make something of yourself." With a tone of finality, the woman blew her nose loudly into her apron.

It was with this piece of advice that Minerva left Caithness for what she figured was the last time, taking with her a wand and a few scattered mental snapshots of a father and childhood. ' _Things'll get better.'_ Her friend Millie had consoled. ' _Besides, you've just a year left 'fore you're a proper adult. Just come back to Hogswarts…it's where you belong anyways, Min.'_

But it is not about belonging. No, it is the way you sought out a bomb shelter even after the attacks had stopped. It is the way you flinched whenever someone whispered anything in German, or whenever you saw the words _für das größere Wohl_ on a flyaway newspaper. Or whenever you think of your piss drunk father beating your mother. It is the knowledge that when you were away at school, it was she, your mother, the cunningly vicious witch, who had slipped poison into his steak-and-kidney pie the night before September 2nd, 1939— which had brought the _start_ of one war and the _end_ of another. It was the knowledge that, in your ignorance, you had allowed it to happen and that you did not have it in you to regret it. It is the fear of death and pain and war, a fear that you hold inside you at all times, in the hopes that it will keep you alive, keep you safe, keep you from making mistakes. History need not repeat itself.

"Minerva."

The library is quietest at the start of term because no one is fretting over papers and exams quite yet. No gaggle of first-years making noise, no detentions to hand out, no rules to enforce. She plans to stay there and work herself to death. Millie stops in periodically to make sure she hasn't perished under an avalanche of books, but most of the time it is just her and—

" _Minerva_."

Lightning strikes outside the window, illuminating the shadow in front with a flash, and she jolts backwards, knocking over her inkwell, spilling blots of black over her skirt.

She gives an aggrieved sign, before looking up.

It is Tom, his arms folded across his chest. "I've been standing here for a while," he informs.

Minerva stares at him for a few lingering moments, blankly, before removing her spectacles. "I'm quite busy right now. Was there something you wanted, Riddle – a quill to borrow?"

She swears his jaw tightens for a second, before the expression rolls over into one of mild amusement; the same glassy, dull-eyed stare she's seen on his face many times; it borders on condescending, makes it seem like he's indulging in a joke he has no intention of sharing with her.

He strolls over to the bookshelf across from them, standing with his back to her, broad shoulders twitching in silent humor. "Don't be so unkind Minerva." He fingers the spine of a book, before plucking it out and flipping through its pages. "I've noticed you're here just as often as I. Most of the time it is just the two of us in this great big library, and yet we sit on opposite sides as though we're allied and axis powers, incapable of civil interaction… It's absolutely mad." He shakes his head to himself, flipping another page, and glances in her direction. "Madness, a plague of the lonely. Wouldn't you agree?"

"You are welcome to converse with ghosts should you feel so mad, or so lonely, Riddle," she mutters, running a cleaning charm over her ink-splattered skirt. "I'm just here to finish my essay."

"I assumed. The nighttime is best for tasks of deep, penetrating focus—I'm here with the same pure intentions, in case you were wondering."

"I wasn't wondering," she says, flatly. Clearing her throat, she turns back to her essay, but he doesn't leave, doesn't even move an inch. She looks up again, properly annoyed now. "If you have your own tasks to do, then why are you wasting time talking to me?"

The corner of his mouth curves. "Ah, yes," he remarks. "Well, that is a very good question."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, Minerva, that it is entirely possible I am lying about my intentions."

"Are your intentions not pure?"

"Certainly not. Not at this time of night. Surely you're clever enough to see that."

Her ears heat. _The nighttime is best for_ _tasks of deep penetrating…_ The innuendo is so transparent she's embarrassed not to have noticed it immediately. She removes her spectacles, and rubs her tired eyes—if only to make a show of her exasperation. Of course. What else does it mean when a young man approaches a girl after hours?

He's mocking her. Surely. In truth she's never been sure what to make of Tom, who appears to exist only in the shadows, as if he is a figment of a lonely girl's imagination rather than a real boy. What she gathers is that, if he's talking to her, he doesn't terribly mind her company. He is Head Boy, a proper school hero, leagues above her, an acquaintance at best. She nearly feels inadequate in comparison. She has heard of his many awards and accomplishments over the years, that he was responsible for upending the student behind last year's muggleborn attacks (a half-giant by name of Rubeus Hagrid was behind it all), and yet feels she knows nothing at all about him. A handsome face carved over a brilliant mind and it feels all wrong. There has to be more.

He watches her, his head tilted to the side, his expression perfectly somewhere between sincere and playful. "I've noticed you're very… candid in your manner, Minerva. Bit like myself, really," he says. She wants to roll her eyes but finds herself snorting instead. And then it hits her: he is teasing, playing as a caricature of a flatterer. He is mocking himself while mocking her. Minerva is no stranger to the attentions of young men, but none in real life are this covert. Most often it is a skittish _'would you want to go to hogsmeade with me?'_ followed by a long period of chaste and hapless courting that results in entanglement with the strange politics of said boys' mother to ensure the girl will make an adequate wife and homemaker for hapless boy. At most there will only ever be sloppy kisses. If the boy is sneaky, he will steal more than kisses. But alas, the boy is most often not sneaky.

But whatever it is Tom's trying to do, it works, somehow. The complete lack of subtlety is exceedingly charming—a crack into an otherwise impossible visage. It makes him less composed, less perfect, almost a fool…but a human fool. And Minerva is tired. So very tired of reality, of its posturing, of its mundane misery, of its endless troughs of depression and disappointments, that she doesn't mind if a story-book boy wants to try it on with her. Certainly not when he looks like Tom Riddle.

With flawless ease, he pulls out a chair to prop himself beside her, and suddenly there's less space to breath, to think— a hand curls around her shoulders, playing with the ends of her hair. "So what is your essay about?" he asks.

Her mouth feels dry. "I—it's for Herbology," she stammers. "The mechanics of mandrake, um, water retention."

"Fascinating."

"You don't find it interesting in the slightest, do you?"

"No." He leans in. "But, tell me, why is it that we're not better acquainted?" His voice is quiet, almost conspiratorial.

She braves up a look to watch his dark eyes for a moment, surprised to find that they don't falter, not even a little, at their proximity.

"I don't know," she says quietly. "Shame that we're not."

"Shame indeed."

"Can we be? Better acquainted, that is."

There it is: a smirk.

"Yes."


	2. Waiting

Waiting

When the light of dawn stains her bed-curtains, it is somewhere between six and seven o'clock and she is huddled between cold sheets, thinking about the compulsive _tick-tick-tick_ —the large, ugly, black watch bound to her wrist, leather strap fraying and numerals faded: it is her father's. Mother, both to erase his memory and to prevent the ( _her_ ) farm ( _now_ ) from going under, sold everything else; it is the only piece of the man that remains, that the daughter has been allowed to keep. Father once said that time is dead as long as it is being ticked off by little wheels, that only when the clock stops does time come back to life and so, in her mind, Minerva remains in half-halt state for this prophesized resurrection, the return of her life.

"Minnie _, Minnie!_ "

Today will not be that day, it seems. Noise ebbs from the Common Room, raucous shouts that she as Prefect will go pacify once she can bring herself to move, which she _doesn't want to do_. And so, as the bed-curtains are yanked apart by her roommate and best friend Millie, her face buries further into sheets. As usual Millie, still in the middle of getting dressed, is clad only in her knickers with her nipples uncovered, a wide grin on her lips.

"Minnie, something _brilliant's_ happened."

"Oi." Her nails curl into her blanket, fighting the other girl's attempts to yank it off. "Not dressed underneath, and unfortunately for you, I don't quite share your views on public nudity."

"You're so old fashioned," comes the usual huff.

Millie plops down on the bed, and instead, pokes a teasing finger into her side— jolting, Minerva throws an agitated look. Her friend sits there smiling sweetly, unaffected, naked legs folded underneath her. For all Millie's delicacy of femininity, a lewdness emanates from herthe. Despite the closeness that forms between girls after six years of shared quarters, something about it still stretches Minerva's ease of imagination.

Millie is a city girl who smokes, listens to jazz, and dresses in the latest fashions. Minerva grew up in a pastor's household. Their names sound similar, but they are opposites in looks. Her friend is delicate and sultry, while Minerva resembles something made of oakwood or steel. Tall, with a physique trained by farmwork, she's often found herself grouped with the boys.

"The Allies," Millie informs her, her pretty eyes bright. "They've entered France."

"Bollocks."

"It's true! Amanda's telling _everyone_ about it downstairs—"

The door opens with a thud, and the aforementioned roommate rushes into the room. "Quick, someone turn on the radio! Churchill's giving a speech!"

Minerva sighs, slipping out of bed and drawing on her bathrobe, watching pajama-clad girls of all years scour in behind, chattering excitedly. They crowd around the giant, beaten thing they keep in the corner and use as an extra table-top— the only muggle radio in all of Gryffindor House.

"Make room ladies, the boys are coming up to listen as well!" A seventh-year brunette named Eliza calls from outside.

Just a chorus of giggles erupts, Minerva tightens her bathrobe and wearily stalks into the lavatory. Clicking the lock, she can hear more obnoxious thudding noises, and soon enough, she's certain that the _entire Gryfindor House_ is in their dormitory.

There are sounds of fierce shushing, followed by complete silence as everyone strains to listen. Static noise as Amanda flips between different frequencies. At last Churchill's crisp voice cuts through the room.

 _"_ — _I have also to announce to the House that during the night and the early hours of this morning the first of the series of landings in force upon the European Continent has taken_ _place_ _. In this case the liberating assault fell upon the coast of France—"_

The Allies have entered Southern France

_"—_ _The fire of the shore batteries has been largely quelled. The obstacles that were constructed in the sea have not proved so difficult as was apprehended. The Anglo-American Allies are sustained by about 11,000 firstline aircraft, which can be drawn upon as may be needed for the purposes of the battle—"_

The battle at Normandy is ending.

_"—_ _and reports are coming in in rapid succession. So far the Commanders who are engaged report that everything is proceeding according to plan. And what a plan!"_

Cheering erupts, drowning out the rest.

The _war_. The _war_ is ending.

Minerva cups her mouth, swallowing her own cry of relief, her heart hammering inside her chest. Then sense returns: If the _entire Gryffindor House_ misses the first class of the day because of a radio broadcast, she'll never hear the end of it from the Head Boy who, incidentally, also happens to be her boyfriend. And a 'talking-down' from her boyfriend, as handsome and pleasing to the ear as he is, never plays well with her ego.

She allows her housemates – and herself – to listen up to Churchill's last word, before emerging from the bathroom. "All right, lot of you. Time to head off." She gives an authoritative clap.

There is equal parts groaning and giggling.

" _Minerva,_ " whines a plucky second-year named Tobias. "The war's ending! Why d'you have to be so uptight?"

"Yeah!" another boy shouts.

"Why do you hate us so much?"

There's a wave of laughter when she rolls her eyes, followed by goofy shouts of "C'mon, Minerva!" and "Ease up Minerva!" and "why can't you love us, Minerva!"

"Don't test her," warns Elspert, the other Gryffindor prefect, standing by the door with folded arms. Like everyone else, he's grinning. "Minerva's hasn't had her morning tea yet, which means she's crabby enough to give everyone here detention."

"She wouldn't!"

Minerva raises a challenging brow.

"Try me," is all it takes to send the Gryffindors shoving out the door, dashing to their dormitories to get ready.

XXX

Her hair is in waves, not a strand out of place, as eyes scour the paper. Legs primly folded, her back sits rod straight at the Gryffindor table; a well-practiced mannerism that's drowned in the robust orchestration of the chaos surrounding her. Newspapers flutter in the periphery, passing between excited hands of classmates. It's the muggle equivalent of the _Prophet—_ the _Daily Express._ News on muggle affairs wasn't easily found at Hogwarts in previous years, but necessity pervaded after the Blitz, when the families of several half-bloods and muggleborns were lost.

Over at Hufflepuff table, a boy by the last name of Montgomery looks especially chipper _._ His muggle father is leading the ground invasion into France. Several of the boys, including Alastor Moody, amble by, giving Montgomery a rough clap on the back, and the boy puffs his chest out proudly. Meanwhile, a troupe of third-years nearby celebrate with a very loud, very inappropriate rendition of _God Save the Queen._

" _O Queenie, queenie weenie weenie / Seduce her enemies_ _ **/**_ _And make them fall…_ to bed!"

Laughter scatters through the hall. A smile tugs at even her mouth.

 _"_ _Confound their politics_ _ **/**_ _Frustrate their knavish di—_ tricks, we mean tricks, honest! _"_

"Merlin's saggy bollocks, they're _terrible_." Alastor lands on the seat across from hers with a grunt, his fingers massaging temples. "Head's pounding. Reckon I should blast a severing charm between my ears?"

"Do that and I shall be left without a breakfast companion," she says dryly, glancing from her tea for a cursory look, eyes raking over his greasy brown hair, unshaven face—he looks worse than usual.

Over his shoulder, he sends a harsh glare at the rowdy third-years. "Pipe it or I'll hex those knavish horns off," Madman Moody growls, reassuring, once more, the silly nickname the entire Gryfindor house has given him.

The third-years keep screeching off-key. Alastor stands and chucks a scone. They return some rude hand gestures, making themselves scarce only when he starts reaching for a plate—it's well known that the Gryffindor beater never misses.

Laughter thunders across the whole table as he plops back down. Several blokes come over to pat his back in congratulatory good-humour.

"Rough morning?" she muses, watching him slop porridge into an oversized bowl.

"A soldier's life is never easy, Minnie."

"You brave man. Although, that's a rather dramatic statement to make about quidditch, isn't it?"

For about thirty seconds, his gruff man façade drops. Slouched shoulders lift. "Aye, well it won't be just about quidditch for long," Alastor says with a wide, boastful grin—his front teeth are newly missing.

She rolls her eyes.

Like her, Alastor Moody is a grumpy Scot, but unlike her, he is an _idiot_ — if, some would say, a fascinating idiot. In his classes, particularly Defense, he is something of an inspiration. Outside of class, he is always perspirating. On the quidditch pitch, he is a loose cannon and a hazard to all lives around him. Yet he intends to be an auror. Hearty, impulsive, never seen without an injury, also most likely to never be seen with a girlfriend. She's often wondered why the auror department offered their most prestigious internship to the one idiot who, at some point, has damaged nearly _every_ bone in his body but they did, and the Scotsman has yet to stop bringing it up. With all the brain damage he's likely suffered, it's hard to believe that he remains one of the brightest Seventh Years, second to Tom himself.

"So what's it like in the world of the high and mighty, Minnie?"

"Prefect duties are going well, if that's what you mean," she replies stiffly.

"Good, good. And how is the Slytherin boyfriend, you traitor?"

Rolling her eyes at the last bit, "Impeccable," she pops her lips at the 'p'. "Always a pleasurable experience."

Alastor laugh-snorts, before remembering he must always be a grumpy Scotsman. He jabs his dirtied spoon at her fiercely. "You know—and I've already told you this—but I reckon you'd make a great auror too. You have the gall to, you know, infiltrate enemy lines. If only you weren't so afraid to get your hands dirty—"

"I'm still a Sixth-Year. I have a year to think my career options over."

"Not long enough, in my opinion."

She gives a drawn out sigh. "Fighting seems to be all the vogue these days."

"I haven't heard any other solution from you as of yet."

A debate on war and politics with _Madman Moody_ is the last thing she wants this morning. She leans on her elbow, looking elsewhere, drumming her painted nails impatiently against her cheek. On numerous occasions she has been drawn in, defending, defining, attacking, but it's no use. Alastor is unending in argument and never seems to notice when he sprays spit, nor enough of a gentleman to apologize when one points it out.

"And what do you suppose we do?" he presses on. "Let Grindelwald trample all over our country?"

Minerva doesn't bother with a reply. Her eyes wander over the goings of the Great Hall, the contortion of moving bodies, before settling on the lone figure at Slytherin table, all jawline and cheekbones, whose expression is perfectly brooding as he reads to himself. She'll never tire of staring at that face.

"Soon Grindelwald's army will be in England killing our muggleborns, with no one but the gods and the great Albus Dumbledore to protect us. And the likes of you will run hiding –with all the other hokey Conscientious Objectors—you're drooling, Min."

"Don't you ever get tired of copying rhetoric from bad politicians?" she says absently, wiping her lip.

"No. Don't you ever get tired of being a shrew?

"No. I happen to rather like it."

At this she can hear Alastor release a stroppy sigh, muttering something about _attention spans_ and _fickle women_ which is, of course, obvious bait for argument. Pity she's not in the mood. Her eyes remain fixated on her boyfriend, whom she secretly loves calling _her_ boyfriend, scrutinizing with the sort of girlish keenness Alastor would surely mock.

Tom looks as composed as ever as he reads, with his dark, serious brows, straight shoulders and air of silent confidence. And yet something appears wrong … off-balance. It's as if this perfect portrait of him lacks conviction today.

XXX

A story-book boy: it does not matter whether or not he is real, so long as she can forget all her woes in his company.

It's been a two weeks since the night in the library, since she and Tom started spending time together pouring over similar books, discussing and debating about magic into the wee hours of the morning. Then, just last week, he took her out on a date. Their trip to Hogsmeade had gone on very nicely, for Tom is neither the shy, bookish sort nor the dumb sort who stumbles his way through conversations. A fast-thinking, silver-tongued gentleman, who takes everything she says in an easy stride and meets her jibe for jibe, but not a prince – because, as she's learned, there is nothing virginal about Tom Riddle. Only three days ago, Tom, to show her what else he could do with his tongue, kissed her. Kissed her! No boy has ever kissed her so confidently, with so much power.

Making her way through the throngs of students after class, she keeps a dignified pace, wanting to catch him in the halls without seeming obvious. When she comes into his view, she pretends to look elsewhere; he ought to notice her first.

And he does.

"Having a pleasant day, Minerva?"

Her skirt whirls around her knees. "Oh—hullo, didn't see you there. How are you?"

Tom's brows raise in amusement but he says nothing, instead, proffering the customary hand to take her bag. When their fingers graze slightly at the exchange, his touch sends actual _chills_. They fall into a similar stride. She bites the impulse to offer over her spacious overcoat, wondering how he can be so ice-cold without contracting hypothermia.

"How has your day been?" she starts with the usual pleasantries.

"Wonderful. And yours?"

Upon closer inspection his pale skin has a green, sickly quality to it today, and his eyes are bloodshot. A line of red runs across his cheek.

He notices her throwing glances and touches his cheek vaguely. "I was practicing human transmutation spells last night. My wand must have…slipped."

A reasonable explanation. Human transfiguration was tricky for even advanced NEWT students, which is why it was the very last thing they learned. It took grueling hours of instruction and preparation. How typical of Tom to try and learn it on his own.

"You ought to have asked me for help," she says.

"Ah, yes. Well, it was rather late."

"I wouldn't have minded."

He glances down the hall behind them. "Is that so?" The end of his mouth curves. "I thought you'd have grown tired of spending so many nights with me."

Her ears heat. "Aye, you have your exasperating moments. But I can't say I despise your company on the whole."

"Very open with your fondness for me today, I see."

"Oh hush," she murmurs, embarrassed, and gives him a nudge. Tom halts in his step: an idea has occurred to him. Clasping her fingers he pulls her along, his pace fast and swift and boyish, down a sieve-like corridor. They turn a sharp corner where they're alone and he spins around, finally relinquishing her hand.

His posture is sly, and broad shoulders loom as he takes a teasing step at her. His face is invisible in the shadow cast by the looming statue, unfathomable, and the mystery of what he's planning makes her cheeks burn.

"To—"

His body presses hers against the wall, one hand raking through her hair.

"Pheromones are a curious thing, don't you think?" he whispers between heated, sticky kisses against her lips. "Moan twice if you agree, Minerva."

She moans, partly to humor him, but mostly to hide her laughter. She feels rather silly doing such a thing.

He pulls away. "Good girl." He holds her chin with one hand, as though inspecting her, before giving her cheek a brisk pat with the other. "Now, off you go. If you are late to your next class, I will have to give you detention."

"You are such a condescending arse."

His eyes glint in humour. "Am I?"

"Yes," she says, trying to narrow hers in annoyance but failing miserably. "Not rea—I'm kidding," she confesses, leaning in to brush his lips again. "I think I rather like you even when you're an arse."

He chuckles lightly against her mouth and indulges her a few moments more, his hand wrapping at her waist, his fingers tapping slyly and deliberately at her hipbone, as if she were a saxophone, and he, a teenage musician, determined to hit all the right notes. At last they pull apart, him before her. He turns around to fix his hair in the window's reflection, running three fingers through his hair, so that he looks like the neat, polished, responsibly wholesome Head Boy once more.

Cheeks flushed, she fixes her own appearance. "Will I see you in the library later tonight?" she asks.

He glances at her, the glassy, dull-eyed look back. "Not tonight," he says tersely, turning back to his reflection, absorbed in himself once more. "I have some things to do."

She blinks. "Well, good," she says, making sure to match his cool tone. "It's not as if I planned to wait up for you."

"Of course not." He casts a single smirk in her direction, before disappearing down the halls.

.

AN: The Churchill speech bits are actually by Churchill.


End file.
